


Sanctity of Marriage: Severus Snape

by BrightneeBee



Series: Sanctity of Marriage [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Anal Sex, Binding magic, Blood, Blood Magic, Brooding Severus Snape, Dark Magic, Dark fic, Death/Rebirth, Double Penetration, F/F, F/M, Forced Bonding, Forced Heat, Forced Sharing, Hormone Influenced Mating, Jealousy, Knotting, Maiden Heat, Mating, Multi, Oral Sex, Pain, Possessive Behavior, Rough Body Play, Rough Sex, Rut, Severus Snape Lives, Sex Magic, Soul Bond, Stripper Hermione Granger, Torture, Violence, Virginity, brutal sex, dark/light - Freeform, forced rut, rare omega
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2019-11-09 03:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17994230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightneeBee/pseuds/BrightneeBee
Summary: Hermione Granger was no fool, and when Harry fails, she puts the contingency plans into play within seconds. She saved as many as she could, including a dying Severus Snape. Neither of them imagined the forces she would put in motion by bringing the dark wizard back from the brink. Dark and Light. Death and Rebirth. Alpha and Omega. SS/HG. M rating.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This will be my sister fic to Sanctity of Marriage: Draco Malfoy, as a, "What if it happened this way instead?" If there is anything that could be triggering, I will post warnings, and provide a summary of the chapter at the beginning to include those who may be re-traumatized by any indepth details. This will be a more dark and intense fic, compared to the more light fic of its sister Dramione. If you enjoy it, or hate it, feel free to PM or review.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, so please don't sue me.

CHAPTER ONE

Open at the Close   
  


_ Avada kedavra! _

 

_ Expelliarmus! _

 

Death and decay littered the grounds and halls of Hogwarts, while the mournful silence that had stretched on for ages eventually shattered in a cacophony of grieving screams and joyful cheers. Both sides were in shock. No one could have known the outcome of the battle, but there had been confidence on both sides, Light and Dark. Now that the end had come, astonishment rippled outward through those still standing, like a pebble in a pond. Reactions varied; hearts either broke or filled with pride, legs gave out or started moving. The delay offered most of the defeated side to either give up all hope, or make a break for it before they became targets and prisoners. 

 

Hermione had always been one for quick thinking, even in the face of utter devastation. The second Harry fell, she was moving through openings between friend and foe. She reached Neville and Luna first, shoving a portkey coin into the blonde witch’s hand, not bothering to watch it whisk them away before continuing her search for the others. Arthur, Molly, and George were holding Ginny back from sprinting forth to attack, and Hermione pushed a coin into the Weasley patriarch’s hand. Remus and Tonks were already dead. Fred, dead. Kingsley had already grabbed a few people and Disappirated to safety, as several other Order members and Aurors followed suit. Seamus, Cormac and the Patil twins were crouched by Lavender, trying to stop the bleeding at her throat. The young witch wouldn’t survive the wounds inflicted by Greyback, but there was always a chance. Hermione shoved a portkey coin into Parvati’s hand, then one into Seamus’ hand, and the group disappeared with Lavender’s twitching body, as all hell began to break loose. 

 

There was no need to search for Ron, as he had died trying to block the Killing Curse from overwhelming Harry. They had died together, friends to the very end. 

 

Sprinting through the corridors, Hermione found Percy still clutching Fred’s body. She had two coins left, and she shook the grief stricken Percy until he met her gaze and urged him to take one, “You know what to do Percy. They’ll need papers. Manage the ranks…” 

 

She actually stayed long enough to see the portkey activate, the older Weasley brother and his dead brother gone in a wink. 

 

Down to the last portkey, she took off before the Death Eaters could catch up. She had managed to save as many as she could during the tidal wave of shock, and now it was time to follow the desperate pull to one last individual before she disappeared into obscurity, because that was the only way she was going to survive. They all had to disappear, the remaining Order members, the muggleborns, the blood traitors - everyone that posed a threat to the new regime. The government had already fallen to Voldemort, and now, so had Hogwarts. There was no longer a stronghold in the United Kingdom that could hide enemies of the wizarding state. Hermione knew this one, vital fact, and so had Percy, ages ago. She was just grateful she had the good sense to reach out to him during her fourth year to set up contingency plans. Percy knew what to do, and he would have resources. 

 

It was on the Weasleys and the last shreds of the Order now. Hermione was aware that she may not survive the coming weeks, knowing she was the last of the core force against Voldemort, and she had the largest target on her back. The Dark Lord would want her eliminated before anything else, because there was a chance that Harry had her something detrimental to the destruction of Voldemort. He would want all links to Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Savior, extinguished from the face of the Earth. 

 

Hermione Granger was obviously going to be at the top of the Dark Lord’s list. 

 

Sprinting as fast as she could over the expanse of battle worn lawn, leaping over corpses and dodging curses as Death Eaters gave chase. The hunt had begun, and time was running out, but she just needed to get to the bridge. It was the fastest route outside of the anti-Apparition wards the Death Eaters had no doubt put in place. There was no other way, considering she couldn’t outrun the Death Eaters, not in her health, and not in her state. 

 

It had been subtle, gone unnoticed for days, the maiden fever and the itching uncomfortableness of her own skin that had begun following her torture in Malfoy Manor. Hermione had finally started the process of presentation, and it had started getting worse as the days passed. Harry and Ron had both finished presenting by the end of their sixth year, but the stress that Hermione had always internalized had prevented her from showing any form of symptoms of distinction. As the year on the run began, and the stress and worry increased tenfold, she had even stopped bleeding as quickly as she had started losing weight. The aftermath of her torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange - may that batshit crazy woman never rest in peace - had sent Hermione’s hormones into overdrive, throwing her into a transitionary period overnight, and now she was certain that what most females feared above all else was happening.

 

She was Omega. 

 

The bridge was underfoot now, and the Death Eaters were still throwing hexes to slow her down, stop Hermione before she could escape, but they always underestimated the determination that was part of her very core. It was in her bones, never allowing her one second to slow down, to give in to the needling pain in her lungs, the blood burning in her veins, and the overwhelming heartbreak crushing her from the inside out. She was so close to escaping that she couldn’t let anything else take precedence in her mind. She had to remain focused on the fixed bend in the stone railing, the invisible barrier that separated her from defeat and what could only be pseudo-freedom. 

 

Then she was at the point of no return. She didn’t slow down as she leapt onto the stone ledge, and didn’t blink - did not hesitate - as she followed the momentum she had gained, flinging herself over the side to the rushing waters so far below. The jagged rocks were flying up to meet her, so quickly she barely registered that she was going to die if she did not twist herself into the tight compression of endless void. 

 

She was outside of the wards, the ripple of magic passing through her in a fraction of a second, and with the last of her strength, Hermione threw herself into a contortionist move and focused on the intent, the location she was desperately trying to reach. 

 

There was only so little time left...

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is willing to sacrifice her life for the Cause, but it might just been in vain...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:   
> Non-graphic, but there is descriptions of blood play in relation to a damning ritual, and possible dub/con or non/con in the coming chapters due to the damning ritual. 
> 
> You have been notified.

Chapter Two

The End of the World

  
  


Hermione landed hard onto the rickety wood floors of the Shrieking Shack, the force of her fall breaking the splintering planks apart, and she fell through to the first floor in a pile of wreckage. 

 

Fighting for just one breath, the young witch cringed at the overwhelming pain blossoming through her chest. Decades of dust suffocated her as she gasped in the heap of wood shards piercing her body, and still there was that unknown force pulling her gaze to the ashen, limp form of her former professor. There was a sharp piece of the broken floorboards that had pushed through the front of her shoulder and out through the back. Thick splinters had sunk deep through her abdomen, various organs were damaged, and she was almost certain she had a concussion. 

 

Yet, as she struggled to move, she noticed that Snape was still very much alive, which pushed her more to utilize what could be her last remaining moments. His breath was extremely shallow, his complexion gray and lips blue, and his dark, liquid eyes watching her die in front of him. It was similar to what she had done mere hours before, thinking that it could not be the end of the dark haired wizard. She had refused to believe that his end would be so bloody, so cruel and gruesome. 

 

Now, as she choked on the blood bubbling up from one of her lungs, and dug her nails into the rough wood floor that was still intact, Hermione realized there was a reason she had been pulled back to the Shrieking Shack. 

 

Dragging herself out of the wreckage, Hermione forced herself to her knees next to Snape and grabbed a fistful of his harsh, buttoned frock, pulling them both into a disorganized turn of Disapparation, just as the earth began to shake violently as Voldemort unleashed his displeasure at her escape. 

 

She clung to the thought of home and security, her strength draining quickly, but she managed to deposit them on the soft, cushioned sitting room sofa of her parents’ abandoned suburban London home. 

 

With a deep, whimpered groan, Hermione rolled towards Snape and began to fumble through his pockets with her undamaged arm. The man’s breath was becoming more shallow, a rasp that could soon turn into a death rattle if she didn’t force herself to ignore the pain and figure out a miracle to save him. When she had pilfered every hidden crevice in his frock, every pocket of his black robes, Hermione then emptied the contents of her little beaded bag over the bare carpet, plucking out the potions and medical supplies she had frugally rationed for a year, and a rather obscure, perhaps illegal text on healing and the darkest arts that she may, or may not have, stolen from Dumbledore’s private library after his death, along with the book describing Horcruxes.  

 

Everything was lined up on the old coffee table, and she pulled started uncorking phials with her teeth, sniffing out what would be useful, what could be useful, and what she could, possibly, use later for herself, if she didn’t die in the process. Snape’s eyes widened, as he gurgled and rasped next to her, as he recognized the ancient tome she was flipping through. There was no strength in him to stop her, but he was still clinging to life, and Hermione knew, instinctually knew, that Severus Snape was important to turn the tide against Voldemort. 

 

There was no one else with the ability and knowledge to defeat the Dark Lord. 

 

No one. 

 

Hermione worked without pause, never hesitating as she poured the contents of Snape’s pockets down his throat. Antivenom, Blood Replenishing potion, Invigoration Draught, pain blockers, dittany, and the list continued on. After every potion, she had to stop and work on the renewed bleeding from his throat. Her wandwork was shotty the more blood she lost, but she doubted Snape was vain enough to care about scarring, as long as he could speak and the skin wasn’t taught, she was certain he would be fine with it - she hoped. 

 

She alternated between forcing potions past his lips, and stroking the tip of her wand over the mass of shredding flesh between his jaw and the juncture of his shoulder. Nagini had ripped apart his carotid and pierced his jugular, but the damage was reversing the harder Hermione worked. If only his color would perk, and his breathing would strengthen. It was like fighting a losing battle, and soon she was in tears, coughing blood onto the pale blue of the sofa, but she refused to stop until there was nothing left in the dark text to use to her advantage. 

 

Then she found it, something she never would have considered if not for everything else failing. It was a last ditch effort, and she understood that Snape would hate her for it later. She would hate herself for it later, but she couldn’t let them both die without attempting it. She had to try, at least. 

 

Reciting the incantation, Hermione smashed one of the empty potion phials on the coffee table and took up the largest shard. Wands weren’t needed for the spell to work, only intent, and perhaps she could fulfill the requirement with sheer force of desperation. She wanted the man to live, and she would die in the process if that is what it took. She wanted it more than anything else, because she knew he could right what had gone so terribly wrong. 

 

With everything she could muster, Hermione slashed the palm of her hand down to her wrist, and then did the same to a resisting Snape. She coughed and wheezed an apology, but she knew it would never be enough to make him forgive her. No, he would die despising her existence in the world, long after she had passed on. 

 

Groaning as she took her lame arm and laced their fingers together, she pushed through the pain to flex her hand and press their leaking wounds together until the glands at their wrists were touching. 

 

Hermione continued with the ritual, desiring nothing more than to close her eyes against the deterrent of Snape’s unapproving gaze. 

 

“Blood to blood,” she gasped, feeling the searing pain of their essence combining in a whirl of black wisps encapsulating their hands. “Soul to soul…”

 

Golden light emanated from behind Snape’s teeth, his cheeks and throat glowing, and Hermione was certain that he was witnessing the same in her, as well. 

 

“Sealed with a kiss,” choked Hermione, leaning forward over the dark wizard. “Forevermore…”

 

Pressing her mouth to his, Hermione breathed the last of her life and her magic into Snape, just as he tried to do the same to her. The movement of his lips - hers against his, his against hers - caused them both to gasp, a tidal wave of something beyond human comprehension crashing through them. 

 

And nothing. 

 

It wasn’t enough. She was pouring her very soul into saving the dark wizard, and it just wasn’t enough. 

 

“Damnit!” sobbed Hermione, choking on her own defeat as she pulled away from Snape. “Please!” 

 

She was a failure, an utter failure. 

 

Snape was going to die, and the most Hermione had done was clean him up. Her childhood home would be their tomb, because she was dying, too. How bloody wonderful that they would die together, in a spartan house, warded in and hidden from the world for eternity. It was everything Snape had always wanted, she was sure. 

 

With trembling hands, Hermione gave up, and began weakly tugging the bits of wood that still impaled her. The thick shard poking out of the back of her shoulder she left for last, after the pieces piercing her abdomen and lung. If she was going to die, Hermione would be damned if she was going to go slowly and in great pain. She’d rather bleed out quickly on the damned carpet. 

 

“No,” gurgled Snape, reaching for wrist to stop her from killing herself more swiftly. “D...Don’t…”

 

The pad of his thumb grazed the inside of her wrist before he lost the ability to hold up his arm, and it fell with a thud against the cushion of the couch. The brief touch was like a spark of electricity, a shock to both of them, followed by the tingle of what could be surmised as a sting. The moment slipped by in the flash of bursting flames and the sound of phoenix song, as Hermione slumped forward onto Snape’s chest, the world slipping away into darkness as the last of her seeped out onto his robes. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. A New Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione discovers that ritual magic requires a rather steep price, and Severus Snape is NOT happy with her, at all.

A New Dawn

  
  


Hermione startled into wakefulness to the sun glaring through the front facing windows, the prod of something hard against her hip, the feel of breath and a nose nuzzling the crook of her neck, and a deep growl against her shoulder. 

 

There was an ache between her legs, at the juncture of her thighs far too intense to be natural arousal.  It was as if her blood was boiling in her veins, and her body was not her own anymore. She had never been so aroused, in such dire need for a man -  _ an alpha _ \- to claim her feverish flesh. She needed friction, and more. 

 

Then she was flinging herself onto the floor, scrambling away from the blood soaked sofa, and blurry dreamscape became sharp reality. 

 

Fawkes was perched on the banister of the the stairs, trilling as he cocked his head from one side to another, chest swelling with pride. Professor Snape was still asleep on the sofa, his face smooth and unburdened by years of stress, torture, and Merlin knew what else. In fact, he didn’t even look like the Professor Snape that Hermione had grown up seeing every day for several months out of the school year. No, he was… younger than she remembered. 

 

And naked.

 

Her professor was de-aged, and naked. On her sofa. In her childhood home. With… a rather impressive, and yet horrifying large erection, which did nothing to quelch the intense throbbing between her legs that seemed to crash through her entire being like a tsunami hitting land. 

 

Then she realized that she was bare arsed, as well, and Hermione couldn’t hold back the scream any longer. 

 

Snape jerked awake, obviously disorientated and unaware of the situation, reaching for a wand that wasn’t within reach, and taking in his surroundings with too sharp an eye for someone who had just been sleeping. When his gaze focused on her, standing there as naked as the day she’d been born, he snarled - which did not help the matter of her steadily increasing libido - and lunged to his feet, advancing on her like a predator ready to rip her to shreds. 

 

“What the bloody fucking hell did you do?!”

 

His erection was bobbing up and down, as he pushed her against the wall. Hand wrapped around her throat, Snape squeezed and lifted her a few inches off the ground and snarled again, unconcerned by her nudity, and either didn’t notice his own, or didn’t care to make a scene about it at the moment. No, he was more focused on giving her a tongue lashing to rival all tongue lashings. He looked ready to murder her, pupils blown in blinding rage. 

Hermione was terrified. 

 

“Answer me!” 

 

Something in the threatening growl triggered a response from Hermione that she would forever hate herself for if she survived past the morning. The presence of glands at the junctures of her shoulders, at her wrists, and at the nape of her neck flared with a burning pleasure that ripped a moan from her lips and caused something warm, wet, and slick to flow down her thighs. It was the most embarrassing experience of her life, watching her former professor’s nostrils flare when the scent hit him full force. He shook with thinly veiled restraint, complexion turning a mottled red, and his fingers dug into the curve of her throat, but his eyes burned with desire instead of anger. 

 

“What did you do to me, Granger?” he asked again, another harsh growl that pulled another moan out of her. And then he pushed a command, the tone that of a powerful alpha, and she realized it too late, “Tell me, now!” 

 

“I bound our lives together!” Hermione answered, involuntarily forced to do it as an omega. Bloody hell, an omega, and he was an alpha. What had she done? “My life didn’t matter! I needed you to live!” 

 

“Fucking omega!” Snape bellowed in her face, releasing her to collapse to the floor and putting distance between them, nostrils still flaring. “I did my duty - I was ready to die!”

 

“Harry’s dead,” coughed Hermione, tears streaming down her cheeks, as she rubbed her throat. She could still feel the strength in his fingers, and her body shook with the implications. “The Dark Lord won. I was dead anyway… but you’re the only person smart enough to destroy him. My life didn’t matter anymore…”

 

From her vantage point on the carpet, Hermione had quite a lot to take in, including the largeness of Snape’s frame, and the taught musculature of his body at the age of what could only be 25, give or take a year or two. Or maybe three. She wasn’t sure, because she had never known Snape before 31, and even then he had been aged several years older than he had actually been. His torso was like an inverted triangle, all broad shoulders and defined muscles, tapering down to angular hips and strong, thick thighs. His chest was almost bare, save for a thin smattering of black hair, and a narrow trail leading down to his cock from his navel. And even his navel looked as though it had been sculpted by the ancient Greeks. 

 

Then he turned away from her to bellow a reverberating, “FUCK!”

 

He even had hard muscles throughout his back, for bloody Merlin’s sake. Snape had an arse like Adonis, a perfect specimen of alpha and male. So male. 

 

“Stop examining me as if I’m a prize steer, Granger!” snapped Snape, bringing her out of her appraisal of his very attractive new form. “Control yourself! I need to know what happened, and you will tell me this instant! Every detail!”

 

There was that tone, again. Alpha. 

 

Aggressive, pure, and commanding. 

 

Hermione told him everything, trying to cover herself as she stayed submissive on the floor, aware that she was still throbbing, uncomfortably warm, and pooling wetness underneath her as if she were a leaking faucet. Every detail poured out of her without delay, and she could see the cogs working in Snape’s mind, his eyes extremely expressive at the moment, as he took it all in. He had known for several minutes that Hermione was presenting omega, a maiden omega, and he had noted how strongly she reacted to his use of alpha tone. He had already tucked that information into a compartment, ready to use it against her if need be. He was also picking apart everything she told him, pulling from his own formidable knowledge, and piecing together what had caused her to sacrifice her own life and magic to save him - the bullying, bastard professor of her impressionable adolescence. 

 

There was a comment made in regards to her being a self-sacrificing Gryffindor to the very end, as if the notion offended him. It was highly laughable, coming from the man whose deep seeded honor had led him to sacrifice himself for his dead friend’s son. Hermione would have laughed, too, but she couldn’t bring herself to in the face of a naked, fuming Snape. Even then, she continued to divulge everything to him, through her harrowing escape to the moment she had woken up to him nuzzling her neck. 

 

Snape was flaccid now, and it was still rather impressive, continuing to draw Hermione’s gaze away from his face in regular intervals. The hormones were driving her mad, and the presence of alpha wasn’t helping, realizing she was steadily transitioning into her first heat. 

 

“You understand that the incantation could never have been successful if we weren’t destined mates, don’t you, Granger?” 

 

He was growling again, frustratedly trying to explain to her the severity of the situation they were now in. 

 

“I am a twice your age,” he stated, sneering now. “I am a fucking Death Eater, Granger, and you’ve successfully bound yourself to me for the rest of our bloody lives!”

 

“I’m sorry,” whimpered Hermione, fighting back the tears threatening to burst through. “It was a last resort… I couldn’t let you die…”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don’t know,” Hermione whispered. “It was like… a force guiding me…”

 

“That would be the imprint,” snarled Snape, and Hermione looked up at him in confusion. 

 

“Imprint?”

 

“The moment our gazes locked in the shack, Granger. The growing pull driving us both - IT’S ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT!” 

 

Hermione flinched, the force of his raw, unbridled power ripping through the house in a matter of seconds. Wall lamps were torn from the walls, the few pieces of abandoned furniture that she could see exploded in a shower of splinters and stuffing, and the walls themselves cracked from floor to ceiling. She had never experienced magic like Snape’s in full force, unrestrained and chaotic, a whirlwind of destruction as he let his rage run rampant. 

 

Then it was gone, retreated back into him and under complete control once more. He simply stormed up the stairs, and she could hear the muffled slam of a door on the second floor. And she left alone in the aftermath of his rampage, ashamed and aroused, full of conflicting emotions, and sobbing until she couldn’t breathe...

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. A New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Snape...
> 
> It's porn, basically. There's no other description that aptly explains what this chapter is about. It's pretty much some hot AF porn. 
> 
> Please, enjoy.

Chapter Three

A New Day

  
  


The following days passed in tense silence. 

 

Snape had locked and isolated himself in Hermione’s former bedroom, leaving her to take up residence in her parents’ master suite, in a pile of forgotten pillows and sheets on the floor that she had pulled from the dark corners of the emptied closet. It was haunting to be in the room her parents’ had lived in and slept in for her known life, in the house that she remembered being warm and inviting, instead of the present cruel, oppressive cold that pressed in on her from every corner. There was no soft buzz of the morning news on the telly, no smell of sausages and eggs cooking in the kitchen, no melodic humming of her mother as she made breakfast tea, or the indignant scoffing of her father as he disagreed with everything that Prime Minister did, said, or would possibly do in the future. 

 

The quiet was depressing. 

 

It was nice to be able to ward herself into a safe space to ride out her first heat, with access to the better bathroom. It was larger, stocked with decades old towels left forgotten, with a spacious tub and corner shower. Since the arousal and fever had grown gradually worse, with no end in sight, Hermione had only needed a few swishes of her wand to gain unlimited freezing showers to distract her from the intense, increasing need to mate. It was something she was not comfortable with, the idea of asking Snape to alleviate her discomfort, considering how volatile he had been only mere days before. There were still moments in the silence that she could hear him breaking things, most likely punching walls in her childhood bedroom, roaring in frustration. She could vaguely sense brief periods when he unleashed his magic in a burst of rage, and it spread through the second floor like a windstorm. 

 

Secretly, part of her craved to feel that power again, surging around them both as he moved against her, in her, taking her with the full force of his passion and -

 

She needed to take another shower. 

 

Yes, a frigid, bone-chilling shower to numb the workings of her overactive imagination. She could not keep up with the detailed fantasies, and she refused to let biological imperatives, or hormones, dictate what she did with her own body. She could not go to Snape, and she would not let her own hormone driven desires control her actions and drive her insane with need. 

 

She was Hermione bloody Granger. 

 

If she could ignore the sudden desires of her pubescent body during a war, she could survive the Maiden’s Heat. 

 

She hoped. 

 

Two more days passed in decreasing determination, dozens of cold showers, and reality bending desire. Hermione was continuously sweating through the nest of pillows and sheets down into the carpet, and she was vaguely aware that her thighs were constantly slick with a rampaging need that refused to be ignored. Common sense had disappeared hours ago. Sleep deprivation had started affecting her ability to rationalize her actions going forward, and the delusions were already setting in. 

 

In the expanse of her parents’ empty bedroom, stuck in a vivid hallucination as she threw herself at the warded door, Hermione’s wild magic had erupted out in a violent storm in an attempt to break free, call Snape to her - anything to abate the virgin heat. 

 

Touching herself had only fueled the fire, instead of relieving the desperate ache between her legs. Her pussy was clenching periodically, begging for a knot, and her fingers, as adept as they were, and as pleasant as it was to experiment with herself to find new ways to potentially get off, were simply not enough. Again, it only amplified her need, instead of quelching it. 

 

The worst part was the scent of alpha that continued to fill the house, slipping in from cracks in the walls and under the door, that had sent Hermione’s omega biology into overdrive. Growing stronger as the hours passed, she had begun to detect arousal mingling in the alpha aroma, and the omega parts of her understood what it meant. If Hermione had been lucid, she would have recognized the distinct note in the air. 

 

_ Rut.  _

 

As the scents became more intense throughout the day, Hermione had started to sink more deeply into subspace, losing herself completely in desire and agonizing need for an alpha, the alpha -  _  HER ALPHA _ .

 

Magic other than her own had been ripping through the house, raw chaotic power calling to wild inhibition, and vice versa. Alpha called to Omega, and Omega called to Alpha. Natural balance threatened to destroy them both. 

 

It came as a relief when she was thrown back into her nest, Snape’s uncontained, electric power bursting through and exploding the door. It mingled with her own, and their combined scents blended in the air to create a mindblowing perfume of them both. For Hermione, her sweet arousal was hardly discernible through Snape’s overwhelming force of simmering potions, fresh parchment, Indian spices, and musk of pure masculinity. It was a heavy brew, intoxicating even. Hermione’s mind swam with the implications, eyes rolling up as her back arched off the floor. 

 

“You did this to me,” growled Snape, stalking into the room like a predator stalking its prey. He was still naked, muscles flexing and rippling with so much strength, and his erection was huge, standing out proudly, bobbing with the weight of it with each calculated step. “I’m 25 fucking years old again, Granger. The Dark Mark has been burning through my arm day and night...And you…  _ You _ ...have invaded my senses for days. You and your fucking heat. Your gods-damned smell has me in rut, and I can’t fucking take it anymore.”

 

“Oh, gods,” Hermione cried in a high pitched, guttural groan. Deep in her subconscious, she was appalled at how pathetic she sounded, but biology controlled her at the moment, and there was nothing she could do to stop herself from fully submitting to Snape. She was literally begging him. “Please…”

 

At some point, she had gotten on all fours, presenting for him like a bitch in heat, moaning and whimpering as she watched Snape advance through her own thick lashes. She wanted in, what he was offering - wanted  _ him _ \- and she would commit atrocious sins to please him, just to have him inside her, soothing her overwrought nerves with his scent, his touch, his cock. 

 

_ Knot. I need his knot... _

 

Snape was standing right in front of her, glaring down as she whimpered and begged in incoherent mewls and whines that should have left her feeling ashamed in that moment, but no. She wasn’t, at all. Her mewling was placating him, despite how angry his reaction made him. Every submissive sound from her lips had a distinct effect on his body, whether it be a wave of pleasure rolling down his back, or a jolt of anticipation that flexed through is enormous cock, or a tightening of his jaw in correlation to his pupils widening. His reaction to her was making him increasingly more angry, and that only made her want to please him more. 

 

“ _ Alpha, please _ ,” she pleaded, stressing it through the uncontrollable moan. “Please…”

 

Snape’s youthful visage contorted into the haunting echo of his familiar malicious sneer, but his body betrayed him, rippling and tensing with waves of pleasure at the way her back bowed, her arse high in the air, the pleading look in her eyes, and the sounds his mere presence was pulling from her over and over again. She could only imagine what it would be like to have him moving against her, rutting her into the floor until her skin burned from the friction. 

 

“If you’re so willing to be a subservient little bitch, a pain in my side,” he paused, the sneer turning into a vicious growl. “Show me.”

 

It wasn’t a command, but Hermione took it as a challenge. She had never taken a man in her mouth, let alone such a well endowed man, but she did not hesitate to rise up on her knees and make an attempt. She was too far gone, and no amount of reasoning could bring her back from the abyss. She had fallen too deep into subspace, the omega mindset of pleasure and submission - anything for her mate. 

 

Hermione took him in both hands, marvelling at the weight of him, the softness of his flesh. He was so hard underneath the surface, but the skin encasing him was almost velvet. Running her small hands over him in a lax grip, her fingertips traced every bulging vein and the subtle curve up to the bulbous head. The tip was already leaking, and against her better judgement, Hermione tilted her head up, looked Snape in the eye, and ran the flat of her tongue over the bead poised to drip. His fleshed smelled of sweat, and he tasted like a sort of herbal tea, or something natural and earthy, seasoned with salt. And she wondered, if only briefly, if this is what all alphas taste like, or if it was uniquely Snape. 

 

Lapping at his head, Hermione watched his reaction, and was startled by the burning desire flickering in his dark eyes, like flames licking through pools of ink. The growl vibrating through his chest was one of approval, and she continued to take care in exploring this one part of him. The soft, plumpness of her lips trailed the underside of his cock, while the tip of her tongue flitted out every so often to taste him again, and again. She preened at the sight of his eyes fluttering shut, the snarling groans she manipulated out of him, and the way his fists clenched at his sides in restraint. It was awe-inspiring, looking up at a hook nosed Adonis of light and dark, so sculpted and strung tight, begging for permission to unleash his might. 

 

In this moment, her mind considered him a god, and she only ever wanted to please him. 

 

When she had finished peppering his cock with kisses, moving her hands over him reverently, and had licked every long inch of him, she finally took him into her mouth, ever so gently, and hummed in wonder that he tasted even better this way. Drawing breath through her nose, she set to work inching him into her mouth, adapting as her lips stretched to accommodate his size, and not once did she worry about his cocking pushing into her virgin pussy. Somewhere in her mind, she was prepared for it, and she sunk him deep into her mouth, swallowing around him to force him down her throat, choking on him, but refusing to relent. Her tongue lapped at the underside of his cock, massaging the flesh and manipulating it further inside, easing the way until she was stopped by his fingers in her hair. 

 

Looking up at him, it was a sight to behold. 

 

Snape’s fingers gripped her by the roots of her hair, and she could see him fighting with himself, wanting so badly to hurt her, to prove her wrong, and also melt into the pleasure, allow her to please him, and be pleased by her willingness to submit to him - only him. There was a great conflict in him, buried so deep that not even he understood it completely. She saw it, though. She saw the pain he was trying to hide, the fear that she would reject him when all was said and done. Part of her, the true essence of Hermione that was locked in omega instincts, knew that. She had felt it, too. She feared the same, trembled at the thought that he would turn away from her, hate her, and never forgive her. 

 

_ You understand that the incantation could never have been successful if we weren’t destined mates, don’t you, Granger? _

 

If they continued, there would be no going back. 

 

Phoenix song and tears had been the missing component, and then Fawkes had shown up. His small addition had completed the ritual, and reversed so much, linking them together for the rest of their lives  _ if _ they sealed it. Going forward, they would forever be bound and mated. True mates. Alpha and Omega. Light and Dark. The balance of nature, itself. They would be marked, blood to blood, soul to soul, sealed with a kiss. 

 

Once they were themselves again, they would hate each other, and hate themselves. 

 

Yet, biology had a way of burying doubts deep, and magic had a way of fueling passion. 

 

Snape thrusted forward, surging all the way down into Hermione’s throat, and set a brutal pace. His grip in her hair guided her quickly, always aware to stop her mouth a few inches before the base of his cock. She was learning his preferences, letting him show her what he liked, and how he liked it. Her tongue continued to massage his cock from underneath, pressing here and there into the veins as she continued to take him over and over again. He seemed to enjoy it immensely, so she never stopped. 

 

It wasn’t as if it weren’t enjoyable for her, as well. In contrast, it seemed to embolden her further. The taste of him, the feel of him, the sound of him. It caused such a reaction, Hermione never wanted it to end. The experience was addictive, and his scent was intoxicating. She wanted to take all of him, anywhere else he pleased - arse, pussy - It didn’t matter. If it was anything like taking him in her mouth, she would revel in it. 

 

Just touching him in any way was enough to calm the nauseating spiraling of reality, as if it were all about to fall into place and make sense. 

 

“Fuck,” growled Snape, pulling her away from him with a jerk of his wrist. Staring down at her in thinly veiled awe, not quite hidden under an attempt at disdain, he considered her for a long while. “Why does it feel as if the world is spinning out of my control?”

 

It is a rhetorical question, in a sense. He doesn’t actually require an answer, or preferably desire one, and her omega caught on, remained obedient and poised to please. There is something in her, wound tight and waiting to spring into action, again. She is waiting for permission to ravage him, and be worshipped in return. She would prefer them both to be happy, alpha and omega, for the world to right itself, show him life could better that what he had already lived. 

 

Anything is possible…

 

Anything.

 

A wave of magic washed over her, tingling in places that Hermione had been unaware existed in the female anatomy. It was his magic, the embodiment of Chaos. There were so many conflicting emotions in the air, but it all mattered very little. Her eyes rolled, and she was falling backwards into her nest. 

 

Snape was hovering over her, spontaneously - suddenly - fingers gripping her jaw brutally, as he studied her further. Hermione could feel the weight of his erection against her stomach, caught between them. His hips rested between her legs, and there was a subtle brush of his heavy balls against her clit that had her mewling. She wanted more, so much more, and yet he was perfectly fine to keep her waiting, as if he were punishing her for thrusting this upon him. 

 

Yet, she could see it in his eyes, through the thick curtain of her lashes, how much he wanted to continue. His face was raw and red with desire, and his arousal was thick in the air, mingling with her own in the most extraordinary way. Their magic caressed, which was strange, but it felt right, safe - finally belonging. 

 

“I am a cruel man, Granger,” he hissed, low and rough, like gravel. How had she not recognized the difference in his baritone? “If we’re to be bonded and mated for the rest of our miserable lives, you should understand this one truth: I have no predisposition to romance, nor will I contemplate any notions of love - it doesn’t exist - but I am possessive of what I view as mine. There will be no going back. You will be mine until death, and only mine. Do I make myself clear?”

 

It was writ upon her membrane, as if he had entered her mind and branded it there permanently. Subconsciously, Hermione understood better than most, because she had always straddled the line on romance, love, marriage and children. It all seemed a waste of valuable time, and if she was to be his until death, which could be mere days or weeks, then she would prefer to be indoctrinated into his preferences from the start. It didn’t come as a surprise that he was a cruel man, everyone knew that, and she had somehow known he would be unapologetically brutal in bed. She was not naive. She was a virgin, in the Maiden’s Heat, with a soon-to-be mated alpha with sadistic preferences, possibly masochistic if her years of assumptions were correct, and her omega had spent days preparing her for what was to come. 

 

Snape’s brows furrowed, and she realized he was in her mind, glimpsing into the of incoherent abyss of subspace, “How long have you been watching me?”

 

Another rhetorical question. 

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he growled, letting go of her jaw to cut the connection between their eyes. “Virgin… I should have known.”

 

Head dipping down, he brushed his large nose over Hermione’s sensitive glands at the juncture of her neck, while his fingers ghosted along the plains of her body to the apex of her thighs. He inhaled deeply, growling into her skin as he pressed two fingers in her dripping cunt. The way his head was angled offered her close proximity to Snape’s glands, and the undiluted essence rolling off of him. It was impossible to restrain herself, writhing against his fingers, arching into him when he growled after every inhale, and breathing deeply of his own unique scent. 

 

“Indian summer,” breathed Hermione, unaware that she had said it out loud, but content to rake her nails through Snape’s hair, over his scalp, in an attempt to keep him from pulling away. “Alpha… My alpha…” 

 

He tensed above her, against her. Then he snarled into her neck, nipping at her flesh and digging his own nails into her angular hips. They were both extremely malnourished and far too thin, but where Snape’s emaciation due to stress and torture still managed to display his musculature and strength, while Hermione’s exaggerated the ill guantness of her sunken cheeks and pronounced ribcage. On her left forearm were the carved letters of M-U-D-B-L-O-O-D, angry, raw and red against her ashen complexion. It glared in the dim light filtering through the sheer blue curtains obscuring the window, a hideous reminder of what she alone had endured during the war, and yet nothing compared to the web of scars that covered Snape’s own pale form. 

 

Of course, there was no focus or time spent lingering on the superficial. 

 

Snape’s sharp teeth bit and scraped over the gland between her neck and shoulder, balancing on the line between pain and pleasure, while his lips and tongue massaged the intensity to a dull throb, keeping her trapped in a heightened sense of arousal, but refusing to allow her any relief. His mouth moved over her body, from her neck to her jutting clavicle, to her small breasts and rosy pebbled nipples, to the ridged slope of her ribs inward to her stomach, and even lower. He impressed his teeth and massaged the pain away everywhere, except the apex of her thighs, where she desperately attempted to grind upwards against him to create even a fraction of friction to alleviate the agonizing need that stabbed between her legs. It was futile, given that Snape was stronger than her, driven by his own desire -  _ rut _ \- and fully capable of pinning her hips down against the thin sheets covering their spot on the carpeted floor. 

 

Try as she might, Hermione was unable to win against his grip. 

 

She did, however, take enjoyment in the ability to run her own hands over his body - the parts of which she would reach. Her fingertips traced the overlapping scars across the backs of his shoulders, played with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, glided through his raven locks - not at all greasy, despite what everyone had claimed. Hermione mewled like a kitten when his hot breath floated over her sensitive sex, and she tightened her grip on his hair. 

 

One lick, and she would shatter instantly. 

 

Snape pulled away, waving his hand over one of the pillows until it had expanded to the size of a king mattress, yet still an overly plush pillow. It took Hermione by surprise when he immediately buried his face between her legs, lifting her with ease and letting them both fall back into the center of the enormous pillow. In all the jostling and movement, his mouth never lost contact with her pussy, nose rubbing expertly against her clit, and his breathing ragged, rough, almost panting as he worked her sex with practiced ease. 

 

It was unlike anything she had experienced before, the skill of his mouth, teeth, tongue rocketing her through to unimaginable heights of pleasure. She had merely fumbled around those cold nights in the tent with Ronald, barely feeling anything at his uneducated fingers, and suspecting she may possibly be gay, or at least asexual, in the absence of enjoyment - unable to rationalize taking the step further to sex. Nothing in that battered tent could ever compare to what Snape was unleashing on her at that moment. He sent her to the precipice in mere seconds, only to bring her down again, over and over. He growled against her, murmured into her the most vulgar words, and yet they titillated her more than anything else. 

 

_ Sweet little cunt… _

 

_ Taste like fucking honey… _

 

_ Small cuny...smells fucking delicious… stretch it with my cock… _

 

_ Knot you ‘til you scream… _

 

Then she came. Leaps and bounds harder than she had ever managed by her own hand. It was as if she had been thrown out of her own body by the force of it, screaming his name as if she were being murdered, body fighting against his hold as he lapped at her still. He snarled against her, sucking on her clit and then moving below to lick as much of her taste as he could. He continued on about how amazing she smelled, how sweet she tasted, how tight she was going to be, and it was like torture at a point, when she desperately needed him inside her. 

 

It was Hermione’s turn to start snapping and snarling, managing to buck him off of her overly sensitive sex and lung at him. 

 

“Stop fucking talking,” she panted, gasping for air, not even wincing at the raw pain of her throat from screaming in her euphoria. “Just fuck me already.”

 

Hermione never asked permission, most likely due to the fact that they were beyond simple courtesies. He wanted it, she wanted it, and neither were of an opinion to prolong the inevitable any longer. She had already been in prime position to take him, straddling his hips, and she simply tilted back and let his thick head rub against her cunt, working it into her entrance. Snape didn’t move as she moved experimentally, gathering her courage, until she finally thrust down, forcing him half inside of her, too tight, too sensitive, and far too driven by omega instinct. He groaned, arching up with his hips, as Hermione squealed at the sharp uncomfortableness. Yet, she continued, rocking after a moment, until her pelvic bone was grinding against his own. Despite the initial pain of intrusion, she soldiered on, dragged beyond her limit by biology.

 

There was something in the way the world stopped spinning as much once they were fully connected. Their magic flowed like a river between them, Hermione’s surging forth to mingle and swirl through his veins, his very being, before entering her again, an endless cycle of their souls fusing together for the binding, something so profound in its intensity that the ancient texts could never accurately describe it. The sensation of being half of one whole, of discovering the true meaning of home, the coming together of true mates - equals. 

 

It stole the breath from them both, the completeness. It was as if their universe had laser focused, combining into one experience as they rocked together in unison. Everything sped up around them, twisting and spinning. Hermione’s nails cut deep into Snape’s chest as she rode him fast and hard, while his own fingers bruised the taut flesh of her waist in an attempt to keep up, match her thrust for thrust. They were both building to something phenomenal, together, as one soul, and neither relented to catch their breath. 

 

Then Hermione’s world tilted. 

 

Snape pushed up, leaning back against the wall and slamming up into Hermione as he latched onto the juncture of her neck. She did the same. Instinct. 

 

The base of his cock began inflating inside of her, as well, which was a revelation. It didn’t matter that it was stretching her to the breaking point,  because it felt fucking amazing the larger it became. His knot touched places she had no idea existed in her, and the feel of it completely locking them together catapulted them both into orgasm. They bit into each other, blood welling in their mouths, roaring their release into flesh. Their movements gradually slowed as they both came down from the high, endorphins thrumming through their veins in post-coital bliss. 

 

They simply stayed there, unable to move away from each other, laving at the wounds they had inflicted without paying notice to the sentiment, or significance, of what they had just sealed. They were bound together, mated for life, and too far gone in biology and instinct to stop and ponder the ramifications. They were simply one soul from that moment on, basking in the afterglow, attempting to find a spare breath before their combined hormones started the cycle again. 

 

They slumped together, Snape sliding down the wall to rest comfortably on the enchanted pillow, the pseudo-bed he had charmed, and Hermione followed with small whimpers as his knot shifted inside of her, unable to slip out. It created little aftershock orgasms, small sparks that had her shivering against his chest as they both slipped into a dreamless sleep. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Willingness is Essential to Submission...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> X-Rate / M-Rated ? 
> 
> Snape requires more than understanding when it comes to what he expects from his omega.

Chapter Five

 

Willingness is Essential to Submission…

 

Hermione and Snape began to surface through their shared heat and rut, although neither had yet realized, or knew, how much time had passed. 

 

Still, Snape managed to control the situation in the midst of overwhelming hormonal and sexual urgency. Ice water was a constant between rounds, as well as food. Slices of bread were transfigured into warm croissants, and butter appeared out of thin air. Despite his aggressive and possessive nature, he also urged Hermione to eat and drink, caring for her in a way only a mated and bonding alpha could, should, and would. He would carry her into the bathroom for frequent showers during periods of temporary satiation, after his knott deflated and before they drifted off to sleep. There was no energy or will to fight Snape, nor were there any specific needs, either. 

 

Deep down, Hermione collected information subconsciously. 

 

In reality, she was nothing more than a shell of who she remembered herself to be, as more and more was chipped away, or manipulated by Snape. His rut ended long before her heat subsided, and he took the opportunity to begin teaching Hermione his way, molding her into what he desired most. 

 

It began in a way that only one would expect of Severus Snape, microscopic and trivial, unnoticeable. He played a very long game, and each move was calculated for maximum impact, or retention in relation to Hermione’s reduced state. She was biddable, pliant, and he manipulated it to his benefit. When the time came that she would look back on the time spent under his control, she would recognize the behaviour, the phrasing, the tones used as grooming. Until then, influenced by the elevation of hormones and pheromones of her first heat, she never stood a chance, but never would she have imagined that Snape molding her during that specific period, and then after, would have been for her benefit in the coming years. 

 

No, but when he said certain things in a calculated way and in a specific tone, Hermione obeyed willingly. It became ingrained upon her membrane, and within days no prompting was required. Instinctually, she knew, and it pleased him. Since it pleased him, she preened and purred and continued to learn from him, because even though the rewards were mindblowing, the punishments were enlightening. 

 

“Wrong!” snarled Snape, pulling Hermione off of his large cock with a trail of saliva connecting the tip of his cock to her lips. She vaguely remembered feeling upset that she had displeased her alpha, but also excited about the prospect of what punishment he would inflict to reinforce his point, his instruction, his will. “All fours. Now.” 

 

By then, Hermione was surfacing as the heat abated, but she was still driven by the need to prove herself. She had been aware enough for the past week, or at least a few days. Time was hard to gauge for her, still, and it had been difficult to know if mere hours had passed, or if days were blurring together. She readily propped herself on all fours, ass presented to him and head bowed, back arched in the way he preferred. Her arms shook even holding herself up, and her legs were aching and weak, but she knew already what would happen if she collapsed. 

 

She also knew what would happen if she a single sound escaped her. 

 

The first hit landed with precision to her right buttock, but not with his full force. Snape liked to build to a precipice of pain, always one to enjoy her struggle to hide the pleasure she experienced. It was a double-edged sword, and she lived for the rush of feeling that sharp sting and the prickling heat from one smack, yet retained the ingrained expectation of inevitable emotional and mental warfare she was so used to from Snape during her school years. There was something about him that enraptured and mystified, but under that caustic nature, despite the influence of mating, there was a small part of him that was capable of caring. 

 

Hermione’s punishment continued, each slap striking hard and true, intensity increasing every few blows, while she trembled on her hands and knees, biting her lip until it bled to keep from uttering a single sound. Her body was taut, tense, and flush with the heat of her own deeply seeded embarrassment at the impropriety of how wonderfully liberating it felt to be disciplined in such a way by her own former teacher. The professor that hated teaching, students, Hermione, and had been hated, mistrusted, in return. The man who was closer to her own father’s age then Hermione’s age. The mature. The authoritative. The biting and cruel. 

 

“Uptight, Gryffindor princess,” scoffed Snape, his last strike against her arse hitting home painfully and viciously, the hardest smack thus far to drive his point home. He wasted no time in grabbing her cheeks roughly and squeezing, covering her back with his torso in order to bite into the mating mark at the juncture of her neck, and then continue his comment against her ear, husky and seductive in that Snape specific voice. “What would poor, old, dead Minerva think? Knowing her favorite little lion is desperate to be dominated by Head of Slytherin? That you’ve always wanted the greasy bat’s cock knotting your tight fucking cuny? Hm?” 

 

Said cuny was throbbing, still slick and wet, impatiently waiting for him to slam his huge cock into her, waiting for her reward. She understood that he wouldn’t be continuing to teach her as he fucked her unless it was for a reason, at least that was what she told herself. It was enough to lie to herself about wanting to feel the power and strength behind each violent thrust, the challenge of controlling her body’s responses per his command, as he exerted control over her completely, was also exhilarating. It felt more and more like she was balancing on the edge of a cliff, and one misstep would send her plummeting to her own demise. That threat of no control whatsoever terrified her, and yet when Snape demanded that control, there was a foundation of trust that allowed Hermione to easily let go and simply obey. 

 

“You obey because I require obedience and you’re desperate to please me,” he growled, head of his cock pressing against her sopping cunt. “Willingness is essential to submission.” 

 

Snape slammed into her so hard, so deep, Hermione almost cried out from the jolt of pain. His hand was in her unkempt curls, and on the next violent thrust he yanked her up on her knees. One hand squeezing her throat, the other manipulating her clit, all Hermione could do was arch back into him and struggle to breathe. It was something new, another enlightening preference of her own that became hard to grasp. Her body was on fire, hardly any air in her lungs, and she was soaring with each thrust of his cock and increasing pressure on her clit. She could only equate it to Muggle drugs, the high experienced that made people crave more and more, never caring if it killed them in the process of chasing that sensation. 

 

Addiction. 

 

“Come,” ordered Snape, increasing his pace. “Now.” 

 

Acquiescent. Biddable. Obedient. 

 

The orgasm was continuous, a repetitive cycle of intensifying climaxes that were mighty waves crashing onto shore. One after another, after another. A never-ending release that was initiated by the command Snape had given her, the knot at the base of his large cock inflating inside of her, stretching her, and the sensation of his teeth piercing through flesh at the nape of her neck. The final bond. The completion of mating. It was, again, an out of body experience. More than that, it was as if she had been thrown out of her own body, and yet felt everything. 

 

Hermione felt the finality of the bond rip through Snape and herself, both recognizing the searing heat burning through every inch of them. He came forcibly behind her own relentless release. They become one in the same cycle of awareness and pleasure. Emotions, thoughts, senses. It was almost like a symbiotic relationship, alpha and omega, but also within a coalescent partnership. They were connected as one, yet still separate entities. 

 

Of course, she was unable to do much about it. Hermione immediately went slack in correlation to the pressure of Snape’s bite to the base of her neck, much like in animals where the dominant paralyzed the submissive during procreation. The same principles applied to alpha-omega evolution, or genetics. Instincts? 

 

Who bloody cared? 

 

Eventually, Snape released Hermione, and they collapsed forward onto the enlarged pillow, passing out before they even touched the fabric...

  
  
  
  



	6. Time Flies, Worries Mount...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weeks pass, and Snape's personality grows intense, while Hermione is struggling and trying to hide suspicions of something that could ruin the foundation of carefully laid plans...

Chapter Six

 

Time Flies, Worries Mount... 

 

“You are still… holding… back,” snarled Snape, unleashing a torrent of silent, wandless spells at Hermione. Some were sinister, some were harmless, but painful, nonetheless. “Stop being so fucking meek, Granger!” 

 

She had been struggling for weeks following the end of her first heat, the shifting dynamic between Snape and herself, as well as the stress of training under her alpha’s cold gaze and sharp tongue. There had also been a nagging suspicion that she had been hiding that was horrifying to even consider, knowing what she had studied about Omega biology. What she had read in book after book during her adolescence, and on the run with Harry and Ron, Hermione knew that Omegas bled profusely for two weeks following each heat, and up to a month continuously after the Maiden Heat, unless attended to and joined by a compatible alpha. In that instance, 8 out of 10 omegas conceived, and prolonged menstruation never happened. It was enough to weigh her down and cause her an incredible amount of stress. 

 

It was evident that Snape had no understanding about the intimate nature of female biology, especially that of a virgin omega, or he simply hadn’t recognized the budding signs in the weeks following their bonding. 

 

The searing pain lighting up his nervous system that originated from the activation of his Dark Mark continued to be a trigger for Snape’s uncontrolled rage. His power would lash out and rip through the house, causing more and more damage that was difficult to repair without the use of a wand. Yet, ever since their bond had been sealed, he was less biting and cruel, and more intense in the way his alpha protectiveness manifested. He was forceful and relentless in training Hermione to be an efficient, ruthless spy, like himself, in order to stay alive in the new world order. She could sense a coiled weight of fear in him that she had never known existed before, and the realization of it threw so much into clear focus. 

 

He had spoken the truth about being a cruel man, a possessive man, but she hadn’t truly understood how deeply imbedded in his own psyche those characteristics had become over his entire lifetime. With the bonding came a continually flowing stream of emotions, memories and feelings. It had become a point of contention for Snape, as it became clear that it took an immense amount of energy and focus to stem the cycle to a trickle. It had amazed Hermione how seriously and strongly he took being a mated alpha, and how horrible his life had been. He was terrified of what he felt, and he refused to relinquish the only thing meant specifically for him, a person biologically destined to be his, and his alone. He was a selfish man, and he hoarded his precious books and memories, the rare few memories that could be cherished, and, now, Hermione. There was the driving force behind his own behavior, and the conflicting ways he interacted with and treated her. 

 

It confused Hermione that Snape had not picked up on her thoughts of possibly being pregnant, but, then again, there was the distinct possibility that he had diverted that knowledge into laser focus on silent, wandless magic, defense and offense, and, of course, muggle tactics. Hand to hand combat, forms of fighting that she had only witnessed in fictional spy films during her childhood. The level of paranoia and self preservation driving Snape had become staggering, but there were certain nuances, or signs, to make her suspect that perhaps he did know that she may be carrying, because he made certain to avoid her abdomen, or to hold back enough to keep her from being thrown around by the force of his spellwork, or the power behind his kicks and punches. He pushed and pushed, throwing insults to pull an explosive reaction from her in which to show her how to manipulate to her own benefit. He wanted her to draw on a fiercely strong emotion to open up her full potential, magically and physically. 

 

There had been one night, as Hermione was drifting off to sleep, when Snape turned to his side, pulled her back against his chest, and nuzzled her neck, breathing deeply. It was a common occurrence, but what struck her was the way his hand splayed over her stomach, thumb stroking over the patch of skin under her belly button. He had been mumbling in his sleep, words that she could not decipher, but the way he caressed her stomach had continued to flash through her mind, over and over. It had been exhausting to bury it during Snape’s lessons in Occlumency. 

 

Despite the hardships experienced during the previous year, the continued nightmares that Hermione and her companion were sharing as they slept pressed together, she had been progressing well in Occlumency. It was enough progress to feel a sense of pride in Snape, as if he were actually approving of her, impressed by her abilities, and she had fought not to preen over the information. In fact, she ignored it and continued on with lessons, and focusing on how to consistently use wandless magic, and strengthen that ability. At best, it was hit and miss, and her spells were weak, compared to her ability with a wand. Of course, technically being on the run, and Snape knowing the inside workings of Voldemort’s inner circle, and the way the monster operated, neither of them could risk using their wands. There was a high possibility, which Hermione agreed on, that her wand would have a trace placed on it. 

 

There was also the possibility that Snape’s body would have been searched for, and upon discovery that it was missing, his wand would have been traced, as well. 

 

Non-verbal, wandless magic was one of the very few ways in which they could protect themselves if it came down to it, before they were finished piecing together a solid plan against Voldemort and had the opportunity to implement it. There was no leaving their own safety to chance, not until Snape felt that it was time, but there were necessities they both needed, like food, that required one of them to disguise themselves and sneak out to the grocers, or a corner shop. Hermione knew the area, as she had been raised in the familiar surroundings, knew all the back paths and shortcuts, the quickest routes to their desired destinations. 

 

In the span of a week, Hermione had been able to show Snape the best routes, and had then shocked him when she divulged information about the neighbors on the street. It had been quite an intense evening under his scrutiny when he discovered that Hermione knew which neighbors buried their cash savings in their gardens, and where exactly the money was hidden. There had also been the evening when she had managed a wandless memory charm on a muggle man in London and taken his car. It hadn’t gone over well with Snape, who, as alpha, took it as direct insubordination, but also seemed intrigued as to how Hermione Granger developed the moral ability to pull off such a theft. It wasn’t stealing a loaf of bread from a bakery on the run from Voldemort, and even then, she had felt guilty enough to drop a few pence into the tills on her way out. Now, she had no scruples over altering a muggle’s memory, stealing his vehicle, and also digging up the hidden savings containers from her neighbors’ gardens. 

 

For Hermione, it came down to survival. She wouldn’t apologize, or feel guilty about doing what she could to keep them both alive. She refused to waste the miracle it was that Snape and she had managed to live through the way, and knew that at some point, they would need to pay for new identities, which would require muggle money. Knowing the time would come when they would both need to snap their wands and integrate into the muggle world for a time, Hermione saw the practical side of how to go about it. Memory charms would be needed to alter the neighborhood’s past of Hermione, and replace the last few months with the solid belief of a young married couple owning the house that magically appeared on the street. There would also be the passports and plane tickets to reunite with the remaining Order members in exile. 

 

Of course, what they had managed to plan out in a matter of weeks gravitated around Snape’s ability to deflect suspicions and re-immerse himself in the Death Eaters, and prove himself, again, to Voldemort. 

 

“You smell different,” commented Snape that night as he comforted her after the last lesson of the day, which was never really a lesson, and more an introduction into the darker aspects of his sexual desires. After, he drew her close and sniffed her neck, smoothing the wild curls frizzing about her head, in a way that showed it was done reluctantly, as if he were fighting the instinct and could not stop himself from showing this small form of affection, or attachment. “Sweeter…” 

 

He was asleep before Hermione could think of a lie, and was grateful for it, because she knew he’d find her out instantly. 

 

That night, she waited until her companion was deep in his sleep before she slid out from under the covers, and dressed silently. Leaving the house in the dead of night, Hermione made the journey to London to purchase a box of pregnancy tests and a few groceries for the week. With her distinctive curly hair pulled back into a tight bun atop her head, hidden by a knit cap, Hermione gulped down a bottle of water after cashing out, and used the store lavatories to pee on one of the pregnancy tests and wait for an answer, in private. It was something that she couldn’t stop worrying about, and she would rather not be in the same house with Snape as she checked if her suspicions were on point, or if it was stress. 

 

Snacking on a candy bar, Hermione checked her watch as the seconds ticked by, anxiously waiting as the test sat on the toilet paper dispenser, face down. Five minutes dragged on for an eternity, and she wished she had learned the charm to detect a pregnancy during her school days, but it never seemed to be an important bit of magic to know at the time. Of course, even wandless magic in a densely muggle population would have Death Eaters surrounding her in seconds. This was safer, and she had taken the precautions Snape required for trips out alone. 

 

It was nearing the store’s closing time of midnight, and Hermione’s leg couldn’t stop bouncing as she waited and waited for her watch to signal that five minutes had passed. 

 

Finally, it was time, and Hermione’s hand trembled as she turned the test over to reveal a positive sign. It was confirmation that she had been right, and she broke down in tears, knowing this would be a shock to Snape, as well as requiring further re-organization of the plan they were putting together, and the roles they had decided Hermione would play. Now everything would change, and being pregnant put them both at risk, more than before. And from what she remembered from the informative books on Alpha, Beta, and Omega biology and reproduction, there was no abortive actions that could be taken. Her own body would protect the fetus, no matter if it were magical or muggle methods involved. 

 

“Ma’am? Are you all right?” called a female voice inside the public lavatory, tapping on the door to Hermione’s stall. “We’re closing in five minutes.” 

 

“I’m fine,” replied the sobbing witch, wiping at her face with the sleeves of her sweater and tucking the pregnancy test back into the box. “Apologies… I’ll be on my way.” 

 

The shop clerk tried to stop Hermione as she bolted from the stall and out of the restroom, but there was nothing anyone could say to her in that moment to make her realize a silver lining. She was going to be a mother, and she wasn’t ready for it. Snape was going to be a father, and she was almost certain he would resent the fact, as well as make a rather intimidating, horrible parent. There was a huge suspicion that he would suffer the agony of separation from his mated omega to avoid the responsibility, despite the established fact that he had never walked away from responsibility. 

 

It was obvious that she would fall pregnant during her Maiden Heat, since it was spent with an alpha - her destined alpha. There had been that small hope that the lack of a prolonged menstrual cycle following the end of the heat was simply due to stress and Snape’s immediate need to train. Every minute of the day was accounted and scheduled for maximum efficiency with small breaks to hydrate and eat. It was the same routine, every single day, and she resented it. 

 

In the mornings, she woke on the brink of an orgasm, Snape’s fingers working her clit like a professional before he slid into her from behind - hard and large. It was always sensual, gentle, and welcome, despite Hermione’s irritation at being woken up before she was ready. Then there was breakfast, always simple, followed by stretches. Early mornings were devoted to physical defense and offense, like exercise. By late morning, Snape was transitioning them both towards nonverbal and wandless practice, and he always faded back into Professor Snape. After lunch, Hermione was pushed further and further as Snape trained her in dueling, needling her to dig deep and let go of the control over her power, to unleash it for maximum impact. Ever since presenting and bonding, her omega instincts wanted to take over and it was a fight to not simply cower before her alpha in those moments, but her own mind found that to be the true conflict. 

 

Hermione Granger did not cower. 

 

Standing on the crowded underground, she fumed in silence with the words repeating over and over. She would not cower. She did not cower. She would not cower. She did not cower. 

 

“I will not cower,” she told herself as she entered her house and curled up to sleep on the sofa. “I will not cower…” 

  
  
  



	7. Plans Change...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione definitely did not cower, per say, but complications have a way of surprising everyone.

Chapter Seven

 

Plans Change…

 

“Why are you on the sofa, Granger?” came the irritated voice of Snape, pulling her from a restless sleep. 

 

For a man who prided himself on a desire for solitude, he couldn’t stand sleeping without her since their bonding had been sealed. He required full skin-to-skin contact with an insatiable sexual appetite, which, despite Hermione’s return to hormonal normality after her heat, reciprocated. One touch and she was feverish, desperate for more and intoxicated by his scent, wanting to be enveloped by it. Yet, in comparison, Snape was overly clingy in regards to sleeping arrangements. There could be no distance, as if he feared she would disappear forever if there were an inch of space between them. It was one of the contradicting aspects of his personality post bonding. 

 

Of course, Hermione realized sleeping on the sofa hadn’t been as comfortable as Snape’s chest, and had experienced difficulty without the sense of security from his overly tall frame and large build, the long arms wrapped around her to keep her close. As much as they both despised each other, and there had been moments each day where they would bicker and snap with cruel remarks, their own biology betrayed their conscious feelings. Individually, they were both struggling to find a balance between what they knew they had always felt, and what the mating process had implanted, or unleashed. 

 

Now, being woken and irritable in her own right, Hermione turned over into the sofa with a muttered, “Wanted a break…” 

 

Snape scoffed, pulling the afghan off of her, “Get up and eat. You’ve slept until 9 am, that is break enough.” 

 

“No,” mumbled Hermione, calling the afghan back to cover her as she wiped at the damp corners of her eyes. “Not today.” 

 

“Get. Up. Granger,” he snarled, utilizing his alpha tone to force her to obey. “Now.” 

 

To her own astonishment, the will to obey her alpha was easily dismissable, as she looked over her shoulder at him with resentment, “No. I’m pregnant. Not today.” 

 

“Pregnant?” questioned Snape, the air in the room going still. “Stop your excuses, Granger. Get up.” 

 

“No!” growled Hermione, sniffling as she pulled the blanket more tightly around her. “Go fume somewhere else, I want to be alone.” 

 

There was no verbal response from Snape, then. He simply ripped the afghan off of her again, and dragged her up to her feet as if she weighed nothing. He didn’t do it roughly, simply quickly. His grip on her arms were gentle enough, and she doubted he would leave bruises. Of course, that was the least shocking of his reaction. When he bent over to sniff her neck, and then follow it down the valley between her breasts to her lower stomach. One large hand splayed over the almost invisible swell to her lower abdomen down to her pelvic area. Her stomach was still flat, but no longer sunk in from a year of starvation. In the month and a half since saving Snape and them soul-binding, she had just assumed the gained weight had been due to the routine intake of actual food, not withered plants and dirt covered roots. Or unboiled stream water. Now, after taking a test and having her worries confirmed, the way her lower stomach had filled out before the rest of her seemed obvious. Even if she were only about 6 weeks, it was subtle enough to have gone unnoticed for longer if she had been a beta. 

 

Snape pressed his ear to the slope, listening intently as Hermione stood stock still, unable to breathe, in case it triggered another reaction. In spite of her cautiousness, his hold on her tightened, and from her viewpoint, looking down, it was obvious he could hear something, because he tensed suddenly and his eyes grew wide. Being just over a foot shorter than Snape, the man was still hunched over to move his ear around her stomach until he had located the faint sound of what she suspected could only be a heartbeat. It was the only logical sign to be listening for, and she was almost certain she remembered that the heartbeat could develop between 5 and 6 weeks, or it was 9 and 10 weeks. 

 

Regrettably, the sound of a fetal heartbeat, if that is what he had heard, or the fact that could definitely be pregnant, was not enough for Snape to react in a welcoming, joyful manner. 

 

If anything, he pulled away quickly and stood with his back to her, hands covering his face. Hermione couldn’t tell just by his demeanor, the tension in his shoulders, but she could sense the warring emotions of alpha pride and unwavering fear through their shared connection. She had thought before drifting off that she would wait to tell him, see if she miscarried and then he would be none the wiser, that perhaps the test she took in a grocery store loo had been a false positive. She hadn’t meant to snap and blurt it out. She hadn’t meant to be in such a foul mood to want to ruin his more for the day. 

 

All this because Harry had failed and Hermione simply had to save Snape as the last chance against Voldemort. 

 

“There’s no chance of miscarriage,” said Snape, voice low and gravelly, and she knew he could hear the thousands of thoughts running through her mind. “Fucking hell, Granger… I knew, and I didn’t want to believe it.” 

 

Sitting down on the sofa, Hermione wrapped herself with the afghan blanket and tried not to flinch with every sharply barked remark erupting from Snape. 

 

“This is a complication that we cannot afford!” bellowed Snape, rubbing a large hand over his face, messing the thin start of a beard and moustache. His eyes were strained, and his jaw was clenched so tightly she feared he would chip his own teeth. “This cannot be done alone! I cannot save everyone!” 

 

Emotions running high, Hermione trembled and cried, unable to stop herself, “We just have to wait a little longer -”

 

“The longer we wait, the more difficult it becomes to integrate back into the Dark Lord’s circle, Granger! A year was the minimum to train and collect intel! Fuck!” 

 

“Neither of us are cut out to be parents, I know that,” sniffled the omega witch, pushing her untamed curls from her face. “A year is still enough time to have the baby and smuggle it out of the country. My parents… I can go to Australia and tweak their memories, they can decide to adopt -”

 

“If the child leaves the country, you’ll have to go with it, Granger. I will not have it,” Snape snarled, cold eyes burning down into her. “NO CHILD OF OURS WILL BE RAISED BY ANYONE ELSE BUT US!” 

 

“Sna… Severus,” cried Hermione, unable to stop flinching. “We’re not ready… I’m not ready. If not my parents, then a wizarding family in France, or Switzerland, but be reasonable. You don’t actually want this child, it’s just your alpha nature -”

 

“MINE!” roared Snape, slamming his palm against his broad, muscular, shirtless chest. “I told you before! You are mine until the day you die! Think, for once, Granger! We’re soul-bound, destined mates! Despite our distaste for one another, we were meant for each other. You are mine, and I am yours! I will not have you taken from me, and neither will I accept the idea of anyone raising our children! MINE!” 

 

The force in which he spoke simultaneously warmed and terrified her with the ferocity of his declaration. She still had her doubts, and she could see the way he tensed when she thought of it, but she was entitled to doubt their combined ability to raise a child, let alone his idea of children. She was too young to be a mother, despite being almost 20 years old, and furthermore, Snape was known to have an anger management issue, and he was also obsessively compulsive and controlling. She doubted they would be able to raise a child to be normal, as well as emotionally and mentally healthy. Mostly, she doubted herself, comparing herself to her own mother, and knowing that she wouldn’t have that support to guide her. 

 

“What if,” Hermione paused to compose herself with a deep breath. “What if we shift to Plan D? Omega subspace. If I can’t train, and… There is no other way, Se… Severus. It would be easier than to try and fake it, and once the Dark Lord is convinced, that’s all that matters. Or I leave the country, and mobilize the Order from the Continent.”

 

“Subspace is our best chance to keep you and our child safe,” replied Snape, burying his intense enjoyment over her use of his name. “Separation will weaken us, and as long as you’re close, I can protect you. Being pliable will please the Dark Lord, show him that I have you under my complete control as a forced mate.”

 

“All information relating to Harry will be forfeit, I’ll have to give it up to the Dark Lord,” said Hermione, biting her bottom lip as Snape paced. “At least the memories you gave him were destroyed when Harry died. It will be easier to divert suspicion. In subpsace, you can plant fake memories to show Harry as a liar.”

 

Snape nodded, “That will play up to the Dark Lord’s superiority. We’ll need to make that flight to the Order’s safehouse before the end of the month. Everything else will need to be put into place then, as well. Are you able to make that happen?”

 

“Yes,” nodded Hermione, wiping the drying tears from her cheeks. “Mrs. Luther next door has a computer, so I should be able to do a decent job of hacking the national database and forge new identities. It hasn’t been that long since coding classes during summer hols.” 

 

“And passports?”

 

“Once we have the documents for our new identities, we can simply go through the legal channels.” 

 

“You’re… many layered, Granger,” said Snape, half impressed, and half appalled by the ease in which she viewed criminal activity. “It’s rather terrifying.”

 

“Yes, well, not everyone can be a towering figure of intimidation,” she laughed, rubbing her stomach and standing. “I’ll fry breakfast.” 

 

“Rest,” said Snape, producing a pillow out of thin air and helping her back down to rest against it. “I’ll make some tea, as well.” 

 

And that was more shocking than anything else he had said that morning...

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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